An Imperfect Perfectionist
by BluEyes
Summary: You are your own worst enemy-Monica knew this better than most Mondler-ish . Warning-may be triggering for anyone with an ED.
1. Chapter 1

An Imperfect Perfectionist

Chapter One

~.~

_I don't own any of the characters and am making no implications about any of the actors. Just felt I should throw that out there with this one…._

~.~

**"Bear in mind, people with eating disorders tend to be both competitive and intelligent. We are incredibly perfectionistic. We often excel in school, athletics, artistic pursuits. We also tend to quit without warning.... We get sick of being impressive. Rather, we tire of having to seem impressive. As a rule, most of us never really believed we were any good in the first place." **

**--Marya Hornbacher **_**Wasted**_

Monica took a deep breath, taking in her own reflection in the bathroom mirror, her piercingly blue eyes appearing even bluer beneath the dark rings that encircled them. She had told herself this would never happen again, that she wouldn't allow this to happen again.

In high school, when she was overweight, no one said a word, other than compliments, when she lost nearly one hundred pounds in a littler more than a summer. No one worried, or said that was too much too fast. When she didn't eat anything but apples, grapes, and lettuce for weeks, her mother complimented her on her willpower. When she ran or worked out multiple times a day, she received nothing but praise. No one voiced any sort of concern, not even her doctor. And it was just so _easy_ to take control of that part of her life. And she knew, that as much as she had felt in control at the time, that it had been a grueling year, internally, following that summer, and that it was a road she had sworn to herself she would never go down again.

But it was so easy once she started. She couldn't _not_ get sucked into it again.

It was the feeling. The feeling of hunger, emptiness. The feeling of control. It was terrifyingly addicting.

When she woke up that morning, it had been the first time that she had allowed herself to think of anything other than the hurt in her heart over breaking up with Richard. And while that pain was starting to numb, another feeling took over: hunger. She hadn't eaten since Barry and Mindy's wedding, and even then, she had barely eaten because she was so nervous about the conversation with Richard that was knew was imminent. She couldn't even remember what she had to eat that evening since all of her energy had been focused on the end of their relationship.

And now, she had woken up hungry, starving--empty. She knew better than to let herself feel that. Because after years of struggling with over-eating, and then over-compensating by not really eating for months, and paying meticulous attention to everything she ate since then…

She knew better.

Because that feeling was terrifyingly addicting, and as she looked in the mirror, picking apart ever aspect of her appearance, every aspect of her life, she knew exactly where she was heading.

~.~

_Um…we're gonna go with the Thumper rule on this one (ya know, if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all…oh, that's right, I just quoted _Bambi_). I'm planning this to be a not-too-long series, but we shall see. I also have a Randler series in the planning stages…as soon as I get it all sorted out plot-wise, I'll start posting that, as well (and, ya know, finally wrap up IBTFY…)! Anyway, review, please and thanks :)_


	2. Chapter 2

An Imperfect Perfectionist

Chapter Two

~.~

"**Sometimes perfection can be, it can be perfect hell, **_**perfect**_**…."**

**--Jack's Mannequin, **_**Bruised**_

Monica pulled her robe down, staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. _Imperfect_. That was all she saw. A million little imperfections that all added up to the fact that she, the biggest perfectionist in the world, was imperfect. How could she ever expect her life to be anywhere near perfect when she, herself, was anything but? Running her fingers over her stomach, she scowled at her reflection; her stomach could be flatter. She continued running her fingers over her body, this time up to her arms. Flabby arms. Round face. Collarbones. Her collarbones could be more prominent.

Sighing, Monica dropped her robe completely, kicking the scale out from under the sink with her right foot. She held her breath, eyes squeezed shut she as she stepped onto it, exhaling completely as she attempted to rid her lungs of as much air as physically possible.

105.

That's the number she would write at the top of the page for the day in the small notebook she had shoved in the back of her drawer in the bathroom, where she wrote down every calorie she took in, as well as any calorie she got rid of by working out. That number wasn't small enough, could not possibly get small enough. If she went running and didn't drink anything before weighing herself again, though, it may be just a bit smaller. And, if she was alone for enough of the day and wasn't forced into eating by being around her friends at any meal-time, that number would again be smaller by tomorrow.

There was a very small chance that the next time she stripped completely naked (clothes add weight) and stepped onto the scale would be tomorrow morning, though. She kept promising herself that would happen, but it never did. She would surely go for a run and be back in this exact same position, probably hating herself just as much, in about an hour. And then, the shower would be running, so she could allow herself to break down and cry in her self-loathing.

For the moment, though, she scribbled the number on the notepad, pulled her robe back on, and once again pushed the scale under the sink before heading to her room, planning on getting dressed for a run.

Running was every bit as addictive as the rest of this.

She would run until she felt she was going to pass out, then turn around and walk home, grabbing a water bottle and heading straight to the bathroom before she could drink any of it. She would peel off her layers of running clothes, step onto the scale, cringe at the small change, and then down the bottle of water before stepping into the steaming hot shower. If anyone interrupted that routine, she would most likely ignore them, which was why she woke up so early. If she started before anyone else was up, she would most likely finish, and could cut up some fruit for breakfast and be eating that and drinking coffee when the others came in for breakfast. That gave her the cover of eating—and it was all about appearances.

That's what it _was_ all about, right? Appearances….

_Right_.

~.~

_I wrote this chapter at the same time I wrote the first one, months ago, and I completely intended on updating sooner, but got caught up in _Recovering the Satellites_. And, in all honesty…this fic is rather personal to me, and I thought I could take writing it, but it turned out I needed to take a step back and a deep breath before continuing. _

_Step back, deep breath…._

_Yes, I will be updating this eventually. Yes, it will have some Mondler. And I will get to the parts of the storyline that don't exist only in Monica's head. _

_Reviews are appreciated :) I'll probably only continue this if people are still interested, if not, I'll pursue another story…._


	3. Chapter 3

An Imperfect Perfectionist

Chapter Three

~.~

_I feel like I should warn that this may be triggering for anyone who has ever struggled with an ED. Actually, I feel like I should have added that disclaimer in the first chapter, but…better late than never?_

~.~

"**You begin to forget what it means to live. You forget things. You forget that you used to feel all right. You forget what it means to feel all right because you feel like shit all of the time, and you can't remember what it was like before…."****  
--Marya Hornbacher, _Wasted_**

Monica woke up, head spinning. Rachel had spent the entire weekend at Ross's, and though she was thankful for the alone time, it was truthfully just furthering her self-destruction. Being alone was her salvation lately, and she couldn't be quite sure if her unusual amount of time to herself was a product of shutting everyone out lately, or just everyone being so preoccupied with their own lives, that they simply didn't notice her. Perhaps, and most likely, it was a combination of the two.

Ross and Rachel were currently tied up with the whole being together thing, and Chandler was back together with Janice, and those two situations alone took care of a good half of the people she saw on a daily basis. Joey would show up for breakfast still even if they others didn't, but that was fine with her, because if she didn't eat with him, he always seemed to buy the excuse that she already ate before he got there. And though Phoebe claimed to have psychic abilities, Monica really doubted that, since she wasn't picking up on anything, either.

And with Rachel at Ross's a lot, it was much easier to hide not eating. Occasionally, she would even throw out the amount of food she would use to make herself breakfast or lunch, for appearance's sake, in case Rachel was paying attention at all. That thought seemed to be incredibly self-centered, though, because Rachel wasn't showing any signs of noticing. Actually, no one had shown any signs of noticing, so Monica either hid her eating habits exceptionally well, or else no one really gave a shit about her. Although she wanted to believe it was the former, she was beginning to feel it was the latter.

Monica made sure that when she did eat, it was in front of someone. No point in eating if no one was there to witness it. Might as well prove to anyone who might care enough to be paying the slightest of attention that she was, in fact, eating, so there was no reason to be concerned.

Someone showing concern would definitely be her complete destruction and only salvation. Lack of concern was better, easier. She thrived on everyone's lack of concern, lived for everyone's lack of concern.

All of these reasons were why she found herself, head-spinning, kneeling over the toilet in the bathroom early Monday morning. Rachel had been at Ross's all weekend. Chandler, she assumed, had been at Janice's, since she hadn't seen him. Joey must have had a few dates or a gig of some sort. And she never really kept tabs on Phoebe. All of that was why she hadn't eaten in sixty-eight hours, or rather, how she had gotten away with not eating in that long.

After dry-heaving a few times, she spat into the toilet, coughing at the bitter taste of bile in her mouth, since that's all there was to come up. Leaning forward on her elbows, she took a deep breath, feeling like she was going to pass out. Giving in, she closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the cold toilet seat, a move that would have disgusted her had she been anywhere but her own immaculately clean bathroom. After taking a few deep breaths, she pulled herself up to a standing position, trying to clear her mind.

She was dehydrated, that was all. The human body is made to go without eating for a period of time, but not without drinking. She just needed water, and she would be fine. Water she tended to avoid, because water added more weight. The day before, she hadn't even drank anything.

She just needed water. And, _now_, she realized, head still spinning.

As fucked up as it was, though, she grabbed the scale from under the sink, stripping off her tshirt and sweatpants. If she was that dehydrated, she wanted to know how much weight she had lost since the day before.

100.

She frowned at that number. She had been sure that, after that weekend, it would be under 100. Shaking from the cold, she pulled her robe from behind the bathroom door, slipping it on, wrapping her bony arms around herself. She turned the shower water on and all the way to hot before heading towards the kitchen. Grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator, she downed it in seconds, carefully counting out five grapes as well (making a mental note: five grapes, ten calories) eating them slowly before returning to the bathroom. Making sure to lock the bathroom door, Monica dropped her robe to the ground before stepping into the shower, the scalding hot water leaving her pale skin bright red wherever it hit.

Monica began the familiar task of running her fingertips over her body, listing imperfection after imperfection off in her head. The flaws were always the same, but she always repeated them anyway, as if making them more salient to herself would make them easier to fix. Finally closing her eyes, annoyed with herself, she added, 'fucked up' to the list of things that were wrong with her, collapsing into a seated position as she let her emotions get the better of herself, beginning to cry.

She hated crying. Crying wasn't being in control. Crying was the opposite of being in control.

Yea, she would cry and not be in control. One more thing to add to the list of why she was anything but perfect….

~.~

"What do we do, though?" Ross asked in a hushed voice, gathered around the kitchen table at Monica and Rachel's with everyone except for Monica. Even though she had gone to work, they spoke quietly, as if she would somehow hear.

"Talk to your parents?" Rachel offered.

"Right," Ross scoffed. "Because the one person in the world Monica listens to is our mom…."

"Right," Rachel sighed, looking down at the table. "God, I wish this were easier. But I don't know what we even say to her. How do we make her get help?"

"I don't think we can _make_ her get help," Chandler, who had been silent up until that moment, finally spoke up. "I don't think you can help someone who isn't ready to be helped…."

"Then what the hell do we do, Chandler, just stand by and watch her kill herself?" Ross snapped.

"No," Chandler defended himself quietly. "Just…I mean, we can talk to her, but if she isn't ready to be helped, I just, I don't think there's much we can really do."

The five of them were silent for a moment, digesting that thought. It didn't sit well with any of them, but they all knew he was probably right.

Ross finally shrugged, unsure of what else to say, but unable to take saying nothing. "Well, all we can do it try…."


	4. Chapter 4

An Imperfect Perfectionist

Chapter Four

~.~

_Okay, so…my last chapter of this got a whole whopping 2 reviews, which is the least I've ever gotten for anything I've written on this site (and I wrote some not-so-great stuff in my younger years….), but I decided that I do want to continue with this and finish it, even if it takes a year to complete and no one else is reading it. It's auto-biographically based, and it's hard to write, but…it's so relieving to get the words from that part of my life out. So, I'm going to finish it. And you don't have to read it. Or review it. But, I will appreciate it greatly if you do._

~.~

**"An eating disorder is not usually a phase, and it is not necessarily indicative of madness. It is quite maddening, granted, not only for the loved ones of the eating disordered person, but also for the person herself. It is, at the most basic level, a bundle of contradictions: a desire for power that strips you of all power. A gesture of strength that divests you of strength. A wish to prove that you need nothing, that you have no human hungers, which turns on itself and becomes a searing need for the hunger itself."**

**--**_**Wasted**_**, Marya Hornbacher**

Monica double and triple checked to make sure the bathroom door was actually locked before kicking the scale out from underneath the sink and stripping completely naked. Before she stepped onto it, though, she looked down, tears in her eyes, hating that this was probably the tenth time today that she'd done so.

She hated this. She hated this need to weigh herself. She hated the need not to eat. She hated counting every calorie she so much as thought about. She hated hating herself. She hated this part of her life.

Part of her wanted to pick up the scale and throw it across the room, shattering it to pieces, making it not work. She wanted to tear the pages from the notebook she kept track of her weight and calories in, shredding the paper into unreadable pieces.

She hated every bit of this.

Taking a few deep breaths before wiping at her eyes, she stepped forward onto the scale.

97.

She hated every part of this, yet she feared the thought of giving any of it up.

~.~

Rachel sat on the couch, trying to seem as if she was nonchalantly watching television and not actually waiting on Monica to come out of her room. It had somehow been determined that she would be the first one to attempt to talk to Monica, though she wasn't sure she had been the best choice. Ross probably would have been, though, perhaps he was too scientific-minded to deal with a situation like this. Maybe Chandler? He surely wouldn't be as emotional as Rachel would be if they actually got anything out of Monica. Or maybe Phoebe. Phoebe had been through a lot in her life. She could be compassionate. Phoebe, though, had stayed very close-lipped when they were talking about this small attempt at an intervention.

Helping Monica was what was important here, though, not whether or not it made Rachel feel uncomfortable.

"Why are you watching the Spanish channel?" Rachel jumped at the sound of Monica's voice, having been too caught up in her own thoughts and worries to actually be paying attention.

"Oh, um, nothing was on, and I like trying to guess what's going on," Rachel attempted a laugh, not having realized that the soap opera she had stopped on wasn't even in English. "Hey, um, are you busy?" Rachel turned the sound on the television down, turning on the couch to face Monica, who had grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

"Not really," Monica shrugged apprehensively. "Why?"

"Can we, um, can we talk?"

"Sure," Monica replied slowly, walking over to the couch where Rachel was sitting.

"I just, ya know, feel like I haven't really seen you much lately, and I just, I wanted to see what's going on with you. Ya know, how are you?" Rachel rambled, completely unsure of herself.

Monica shrugged. "I'm okay…."

"Good," Rachel nodded. "Is, um, is there anything you want to talk to me about?"

Monica swallowed slowly. She had a feeling she knew where Rachel was going with this. She really didn't feel like being confronted about anything right now, though, not wanting to explain herself to anyone, and also not feeling like coming up with any blatant lies at the moment. "No," she finally shook her head. "Is there anything you want to talk to me about?" she looked at Rachel curiously, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Rachel nodded slowly. She was not doing very well with this confrontation thing; Monica was winning. "I think I'm good."

"Good," Monica nodded, and the two sat in awkward silence for a moment before Monica spoke again. "Is that it? Because I actually need to shower and get ready for work…."

"Oh, yea, no, go get ready for work," Rachel nodded as Monica stood up. "Mon?" Monica stopped, turning back towards her. "If you-if you do want to talk…I'm here."

Monica forced a slight smile at that. "Thanks," she whispered, the two standing in silence for a moment longer before Monica again turned, going into the bathroom.

Rachel sighed once the bathroom door was closed, turning her attention back towards the television. Well, that got her nowhere….

~.~

"Hello?" Monica picked up the phone.

"Hey," Ross's voice greeted her on the other end. "What are you doing tonight? I have Ben, and I was wondering if you wanted to go to dinner with us," he offered, knowing how much she loved Ben, and wondering if she was really going to turn down dinner with her nephew because it involved eating.

"I, um, I'm actually working tonight."

"I thought Wednesdays were your night off," Ross replied. His goal was to catch her in the act of lying, needing substantive proof of her not eating and lying about it.

"I'm covering someone's shift," Monica shot back quickly.

"Okay, uh, some other time, then."

"Tell Ben I love him."

"I will, Mon. See you later."

"Bye."

~.~

Monica nearly collapsed onto the couch in her living room, having just showered after a long day and night at work. Working long hours made it easier not to eat, since it was easier to get away with it if she wasn't home. Turning on the television, she contemplated just going to bed, too exhausted to think at the moment. Working a double shift might have made not eating easier, but it was definitely not easy to accomplish while not eating all day. Thankfully, she wasn't close enough to anyone at work for anyone there to say anything about her weight loss or eating habits.

At the sound of the front door opening, she nearly jumped, knowing Rachel was out with Ross and that Joey was on a date, and not really expecting anyone else.

"Hey," Chandler smiled when he saw her, having not seen her in some time since she had been avoiding them all as much as possible lately, trying not to show how surprised he was at her gauntness.

"Hey," Monica replied as he sat down beside her. "Why aren't you out with Janice?" she finally asked, realizing it was Friday night.

Chandler paused before answering that, looking down. "She, uh, she went back to her husband," he said quietly, and Monica felt almost guilty that she didn't know that. How long had it been since she had actually talked to Chandler? She felt like she was losing all sense of time, too wrapped up in her own world to care about anyone else's. The look on Chandler's face broke her heart, though, and she wasn't sure whether to be thankful or disappointed to find that she wasn't completely devoid of all emotion after all. Though, lately she seemed to be, unable to feel anything other than numb to the world. Even her hatred towards herself seemed to be turning into more of a numbness.

All of the bad feelings had been easier to deal with than the numbness, though. Bad feelings she could take out on herself; the numbness wouldn't go away.

"Oh, Chandler, I'm sorry," she moved closer to him, reaching out to rub his hand reassuringly.

Chandler shrugged. "It was the right thing for her to do," he nodded. "Or that's what I keep telling myself, at least," he sighed, looking her in the eye, and despite how uncomfortable the eye contact made her, she held it. "How are you?" he asked sincerely. His voice was soft, but full of concern. Monica feared that kind of concern.

At the look he was giving her, like he could see right through her, Monica took a deep, shaky breath before simply shrugging, unable to say anything to that.

"Wanna talk about it?" Chandler asked softly, slightly squeezing her bony hand, which was still holding his.

Monica looked down, again taking a deep breath. Talk about what, exactly, how she hated how fucked up she was? How she hated suddenly feeling so vulnerable since all of her friends were trying to get her to talk, and she suddenly wished she felt as invisible again as she'd felt for months? How she hadn't eaten over 300 calories a day in longer than she could remember? How she almost passed out every morning when she got out of bed? How she had been so fucked up inside for so long that she was beyond fixing? That her biggest fear was actually being fixed, relinquishing that control, losing that part of herself?

Did anyone else really need to know she was that fucked up?

Monica looked up, tears in her eyes, shaking her head slowly from side to side. No. No, she didn't want to talk about it. Not with him. Not with anyone.

"When you do want to talk about it," Chandler continued quietly, "I'm here."

Monica nodded, eyes still brimming with tears, and at that, Chandler pulled her in, hugging her, wanting to squeeze her tightly, but afraid he would break her if he did so. Monica squeezed her eyes closed, trying her hardest to keep the tears and sobs she felt coming at bay. She didn't need to cry. She didn't need to cry. If she told herself that enough times, she could make the tears go away. It was just like with hunger. If she told herself enough times that she wasn't hungry, eventually, her stomach believed her.

Tonight was a losing battle, though. She didn't want to cry. She didn't want to lose it. She didn't want to lose her façade of everything being okay, even if her friends were slowly seeing through it anyway. She didn't want to cry.

Her body wanted to cry, though.

And so it did, silent sobs that shook through her body, almost painful. She cried, and despite not wanting to show her vulnerability, found she was clinging to Chandler, the front of his shirt soaked from her tears.

His silence she was thankful for, though. He just held her while she cried, rubbing her back, kissing her hair, still damp from her shower. He didn't say anything. He didn't make any false promises of everything being okay. He didn't try to get her to talk or admit anything. He was just there. And though Monica had been thankful for her self-induced solitude of the past few months, she was thankful for someone just being there, holding her.

He held her until her sobs subsided, until her breathing returned to normal and her sniffling stopped. And then he held her longer. Monica didn't pull back because she was both embarrassed by her breakdown and afraid of what consequences it might have, whether from him or the others. Chandler didn't pull back right away, though, because he didn't want her to know that her own breakdown had reduced him to tears as well, unsure of what to do or say next, knowing they couldn't help her if she wasn't ready to be helped.

So they sat in silence, holding each other, both contemplating their next move. Monica closed her eyes, feeling his tears against her forehead, suddenly wishing he would just leave her alone, not wanting to deal with the pain she was causing him as well as her own pain.

Finally pulling back, unable to take her current emotions any longer, Monica stood up, backing slowly away from the couch. She didn't make it very far, though, before the world around her went black.


	5. Chapter 5

An Imperfect Perfectionist

Chapter 5

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_Thank you so much for the reviews! Please keep it up :) I'm trying to wrap this up before I start my internship in a few weeks, so the more reviews, the more motivation I have to finish quickly....  
_

~.~

"**I admire addicts. In a world where everybody is waiting for some blind, random disaster, or some sudden disease, the addict has the comfort of knowing what will most likely wait for him down the road. He's taken some control over his ultimate fate, and his addiction keeps the cause of death from being a total surprise."**

**--Chuck Palahniuk**

When Monica pulled back and stood up to back away, Chandler let her, not wanting to push her and lose the tiny bit of her he felt like he had recovered that night. When he saw her faint, he jumped up, reaching out to grab her a second too late, the back of her head hitting the side of the coffee table as she fell lifelessly to the ground.

~.~

Monica woke up, disoriented and confused as to where she was. Looking around, she realized she was in a hospital, hooked up to an IV. Scanning the room, she noticed a tray of food beside her bed.

She was alone, though.

"God, sorry, I just went to the bathroom," Chandler rushed back in, feeling bad she had woken up in the few minutes he hadn't been in the room. "You weren't supposed to wake up while I was gone."

"My head is killing me," was all Monica responded with, placing her head in her hands.

"Probably because you hit it hard enough to give yourself a concussion," Chandler explained. "Although, they're not sure if it was the concussion or severe dehydration that caused the fainting that caused you to stay unconscious for," he looked at his watch, "a little over an hour. Oh, and if anyone asks, I'm your husband, because apparently it's against the law to give out that kind of information to anyone other than family members."

Monica closed her eyes. She didn't remember fainting. What did she remember? Talking to Chandler. About what, though? It was fuzzy.

"Where's everyone else?" Monica finally asked.

Chandler hesitated. "I, uh, didn't call anyone else yet. My first thought was to call Ross or your parents. I didn't know if you wanted me to, though," he finished quietly, feeling, in the pit of his stomach, that he should have called her parents. If it was serious, he was going to call her parents. If she hadn't woken up, he was going to call her parents.

Monica smiled slightly. "Thanks."

He should have called her parents. Or Ross. Or any of the others, who could have called Ross or her parents.

"That wasn't me saying I'm not telling them," Chandler clarified, and Monica nodded in response to that. "They can, uh, keep you here for 48 hours to monitor you because of the concussion. Longer if your heart rate and blood pressure aren't normal or you're still dehydrated."

Monica started at him, realizing what he was saying, and hating him in that moment. It was his fault she was there, and stuck there, for the next two days. She didn't pick herself up off the floor or call an ambulance or whatever he did to get her there. He did. And placing blame on him for her being there was a lot easier than accepting responsibility for it herself.

As the doctor came in to talk to her, Chandler backed away slightly, sensing how angry she was with him, but knowing what he needed to do. Looking at his watch, though, he realized how late it was, and there was no need to wake up Ross or anyone else until morning. He'd give it a few more hours. Sighing, he looked around before walking slowly back to Monica's room, knowing very well she currently saw him as the bad guy, and, no matter how much that hurt him, he knew he needed to be it.

~.~

"I don't get it, **why**, exactly, can't they make her stay and get treatment?" Ross asked, crossing his arms after Chandler returned with news that she would more than likely be released later that day, despite having been officially diagnosed by both a psychologist and a physician as having anorexia nervosa.

Chandler shrugged. "Because it's the law. We can't **make** her get treatment. They can't hold her here unless she's an actual threat to herself."

"Starving yourself to death isn't being a threat to yourself?"

"Apparently not on the same level as, say, threatening to jump off a building or blow your brains out…."

"Chandler," Ross shook his head in frustration. He had called his parents, and though they had come earlier, their presence had only made the situation worse, and Monica refused to see them, resulting in Judy storming out in tears and Jack rushing after her.

"Look, there's nothing we can do right now, Ross. We can't **make** her get treatment. They can't **make** her stay here. She's an adult, and, in this country, adults get to make their own decisions," Chandler finally snapped before walking away, heading down the hall and into Monica's room.

When he walked in, Monica folded her arms across her chest, a full tray of food sitting in front of her. Chandler sighed. She hated him right now. Actually, it was safe to say that she hated everyone right now. Hating him was easiest, though, because he was the reason she was there. Cautiously, Chandler crossed the room, pulling a chair beside her bed.

"When you eat that," he motioned to her lunch as he sat down, "you can go home." Monica looked at the tray and then at him, not believing him. "Mon, I'm not trying to trick you," he sighed, running a hand through his hair, wondering if he looked half as exhausted as he felt.

Monica scanned the tray. Half a sandwich. An apple. A pudding cup. Apple juice. More calories than she would eat in a day, let alone a single meal.

"Please, Mon," Chandler pleaded quietly, leaning his elbows against her bed, too exhausted to fight with her.

Monica again looked at the food, tears in her eyes, shaking her head. Chandler sighed in frustration before standing up and leaving the room. Monica again looked at her nemesis, picking up the sandwich. Lifting up the bread, she took off the slice of cheese and threw it back on the tray, tears still in her eyes as she took the first bite, hating herself as she chewed it slowly before swallowing, forcing herself to take a second bite after that. After half of the sandwich was gone, she picked up the apple, eating that as well. When Chandler returned a few minutes later, she was completely in tears.

"Happy?" she whispered, motioning to the half-empty tray, and Chandler sat down beside her, setting down the cup of water he'd returned with as he pulled her into his arms, trying not to cry himself at her stubbornness and misery.

No, he wasn't fucking happy.


	6. Chapter 6

An Imperfect Perfectionist

Chapter Six

~.~

**When there's nothing we can do**

**And no one can get through**

**Watch you fall deeper into this mess**

**Well I haven't see you in awhile**

**You know I, I miss our talks**

**I miss your smile**

'**Cause the look of innocence is priceless**

**But, baby, right now you look so lifeless**

**--Tristan Prettyman, **_**Song for the Rich**_

~.~

After she returned home from the hospital, Monica had secluded herself even more so than before, but nothing else had changed. Her feelings hadn't changed. Her routines hadn't changed. The only thing that was different was that now everyone knew, concretely, what was going on.

Joey kept offering her food. It was pitiful and childlike, really. She would actually usually accept, take a bite, and throw it away after he turned away. Phoebe kept insisting on cleansing her aura. Ross was still insistent on her getting treatment. Her parents kept calling, for presumably the same reason. Rachel was incredibly uncomfortable being around her. And Chandler….Well, Chandler was avoiding her as much as she was avoiding him. And she was avoiding him as if her life depended on it, which there had to be some kind of irony in.

She'd gained weight while she was at the hospital. Five pounds. Five. Disgusting. Pounds. If she went somewhere for treatment, she could only imagine how much worse that would get.

If her choices were starve to be thin or be healthy and fat…

Well, she was living with her decision, even if it meant, sooner or later, dying with her decision.

~.~

Monica nearly jumped off of her bed, where she was reading, at the sound of the front door slamming. No sooner than she sat up, though, did her bedroom door open, Chandler walking through it. His presence was slightly startling, too, since she hadn't seen much of him in the past week or so since returning home.

"I miss you," he immediately blurted out. "I live less than twenty steps away from you, but I **miss** you. You're standing right here in front of me, but I miss you, Mon," he continued, voice shaky. "You are a controlling pain in the ass, but only because you are so passionate about everything. God, that's what I love most about you, even if it makes you stubborn as hell. You're so passionate. Seriously, I wish I was one tenth as passionate about anything as you are about everything," he continued, looking her in the eye as he came closer, getting a slight smile out of her for that. "But now," he shook his head. "That's gone. That brightness in your eyes, it's gone. Your passion for life, it's gone. I can't even remember the last time you cooked for all of us, and I **know** that's one of your greatest pleasures in life," he paused taking a deep breath. "I'm going to use a sentence that the therapist my parents sent me to after they got divorced would be incredibly pleased to hear me construct: Mon, I feel sad when you don't eat because you're killing yourself, and I don't know how to live without you. Please…get help."

Monica closed her eyes, trying hard to swallow the lump in her throat. If only it were that easy. If only she could just want to get better and get better. If only she felt like she was ready for that. If only she felt she were even worthy of that. If only her only fear wasn't losing this part of her life, this control. If only hating being fucked up was enough of a reason not to be.

If only it were that simple.

"I can't," she choked out, and before she could even open her eyes again, Chandler was gone, the front door slamming shut behind him.

~.~

_In case you hadn't noticed from my frequent updates, I'm trying very hard to get as much of my stories done as possible before my super crazy summer of two jobs, an internship, and my final class before graduation begins. Reviews help speed the process along, so thanks for them, and keep it up, please!_

_Btw, I know no one goes and actually listens to lyrics posted in fics, but…Tristan Prettyman is ah-mazing. And the first time I heard the song I posted at the beginning of this chapter, I cried. Go check her out._


	7. Chapter 7

An Imperfect Perfectionist

Chapter Seven

~.~

_Thanks for the reviews, everyone! They mean mucho to me for this one._

_Aaand, I don't remember who my other Jack's Mannequin fan was out there, but here's some more lyrics for ya :) _

~.~

**I'm finally numb, so please**

**Don't get me rescued...**

******I'll be strong, but whatever you do**

******Please don't get me rescued...**

**********'Cause I'm feeling like**

**********I might need to be near you**

**********And I feel alright, so please**

**********Don't get me rescued**

******__****-Rescued****, Jack's Mannequin**

******~.~**

The second the door slammed shut, Monica collapsed onto her bed, crying. Silent tears unaccompanied by sobs that shook her entire body, ones that she couldn't stop once they started. She reached for her pillow, throwing it as hard as she could across the room in frustration, knocking a picture frame off of her dresser in the process. She then balled up her fists, punching her mattress over and over, attempting to take her anger and frustration out on it, but getting nowhere. She then kicked her bedspread off of her bed to the floor, clinging to the sheet beneath it for her life as she began sobbing, almost hyperventilating, to the point that her chest hurt when she breathed, her head pounding with every attempted breath.

And then, after an amount of time that she couldn't be sure if it had been five minutes or fifty minutes, she stopped. She sat up, wiping the few remaining tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand as she tried to return her breathing to normal. And when she was done throwing the biggest temper tantrum she'd thrown since she was about three-years-old, she found a moment of clarity.

Chandler was right.

She had always been incredibly passionate about everything. And she missed it. She missed hanging out with her friends. She missed cooking. She missed laughing. She missed caring.

She missed living.

If she continued down this path in life, she was going to die. It was a fact. She knew it as well as anyone else knew it. So, she could either passively accept dying, or…

She could actively decide to live.

Standing up, she decided to momentarily ignore the mess she'd just made in her room, heading over to Chandler and Joey's. Opening the door, she noted that Chandler's bedroom door was closed and headed straight for it, not even knocking before opening it. What she saw made her own tears well up again in her eyes.

He was crying. He was laying on his bed, face in his pillow, crying. When the door opened, he jumped, moving to a sitting position, and was relieved to find it was Monica on the other side, eyes still red from crying herself. As Chandler stood up, Monica took a couple of steps closer as well.

Nodding her head, she smiled. A real, genuine smile, and, god, did Chandler miss her smile. It had been so long since he'd seen her smile, but when she did, he could almost see the real Monica inside of the empty shell of a person she had become.

"Okay," she finally meekly choked out, and Chandler immediately wrapped his arms around her in relief, holding her as tightly as possible, afraid that if he were to let go, she might change her mind, and he would again lose this small glimpse of the real Monica he'd been waiting so long to see.


	8. Chapter 8

An Imperfect Perfectionist

Chapter 8

~.~

**The function of an eating disorder, for a lot of people, and for a certain extent of time, is to become numb. When you reach a certain nadir of numbness, it's called despair. It just feels horrific, and then you have to climb your way back up and that whole process of climbing, that is a lifetime. That isn't just recovering from an eating disorder, that's learning how to be a grown up. It's learning how to live in the body you have and in the life that you have.**

**-Marya Hornbacher, **_**Wasted**_

~.~

"May second," Dr. Holling stated as she looked down at the calendar in front of her. "We're coming up on three years. How do you feel about that?" she looked at Monica, slight smile of proudness showing through in the corners of her eyes. Dr. Holling was a psychologist in a team of many people, including a psychiatrist, group therapist, and registered dietitian, whom Monica had been seeing throughout her treatment and recovery, though the meetings were fewer and further between as time went on.

Monica smiled herself, a genuine, heartfelt smile that, three years earlier, she knew very well she had not been capable of. "Amazing," Monica again smiled, nodding her head.

"Amazing," Dr. Holling smiled as well. "That's the only word you can come up with to describe the past three years of recovery?"

Monica laughed slightly, knowing very well that answer would not cut it. "No," she shook her head. "Amazing does not even begin to describe recovery…."

Dr. Holling set down her pen and paper, concentrating solely on Monica. "Then how would you describe it?"

Monica took a deep breath, trying to put any of the emotions of the past three words into words. How could words even begin to describe the process she had internally gone through, though? "The first few months," she began slowly, "were hell. They were hard and tearful and a battle of the wills with no one but myself. There were days that every ounce of my being wanted to give up on myself. There were days I wondered why I would want to get better. There were days I just wanted to give in and give up. And, don't get me wrong, I still have days like that, but, thankfully, those days get fewer and further between as time goes on."

"That's what I like to hear."

"And recovery…recovery is a daily, uphill battle. And I feel like that's what the majority of people don't understand if they're looking in from the outside. It's a daily struggle not to step on the scale, not to add up the calories of everything I've eaten in the day, not to fall back into old patterns that were so easy and comfortable to fall into. It's a daily battle of learning not to hate myself, and to…live life," she continued on. "And I feel like, the further along I go, the more of a sense of…thankfulness I feel. I feel happier and more thankful to be alive. I…appreciate it more, I guess," Monica paused, and Dr. Holling let her be silent as she gathered her thoughts. "I feel like that's also a feeling that no one else can understand, unless they've been to rock bottom and come back. That thankful, happy, appreciative of life feeling."

As Monica paused this time, Dr. Holling did speak, getting that she was done. "And your personal life?"

Monica smiled at the thought of that. "We'll go with 'amazing' as the adjective to describe that, as well."

"Family? Friends? Boyfriend? Work?" Dr. Holling continued the questioning when Monica failed to elaborate.

Monica laughed, expecting that. "Um, family, as good as it's ever been," she smirked. "Friends are good. Boyfriend is now fiancé, who is good," she added with a grin. She and grown closer and closer to Chandler at the beginning of her recovery, and a few months into it, had realized some long-standing, underlying feelings she had for him, and was all but positive he had for her. Neither of them had said a word, though, for well over a year, knowing that she needed to work on her relationship with herself before a relationship with someone else. One late night, though, when he came over after she got off work, they had stayed up all night talking out on her balcony. They talked until the sun came up, both about things they already knew about each other, and secrets they had never told to anyone else. And as the sun rose over the city, she kissed him. And neither of them had spent a night alone since.

"Congratulations," Dr. Holling returned her grin, letting Monica continue.

"Work is good," she smiled. "Life is good," she added with a shrug. "I just feel…at peace with myself lately. A kind of peace that I've never felt in my life, even before."

Dr. Holling flipped her notebook closed, setting it and her pen down on the table. "So, all of the struggle, how hard it's all been, it's all worth it?"

"It's the hardest battle ever worth fighting," Monica agreed, whole-heartedly.

"Feels pretty amazing to get to this side of it, huh?" Dr. Holling smiled, hands crossed as she leaned forward.

Monica smiled, not sure what other word to use to describe it. "Yea, feels pretty amazing."

~.~

_Just thought I would officially wrap this one up :)_

_I was originally going to have this be much longer and go through the whole recovery thing, but…I don't know, I just felt like that whole process is so long, and it's hard to get all of the emotions into words and do it any kind of justice…so I hope this is a good wrap up. May 2 (the date I used up there) would be the day I officially decided that I wanted to get help (and also the day I got the words "carpe diem" tattooed on my foot to never forget that feeling of wanting to live), but I relapsed pretty hardcore that fall, so I don't count my length of time in recovery until November (so I am coming up on three years shortly!). _

_Thank you to all who have read this and reviewed…I know this is far from my most popular fic, but it was amazing to get all of the emotions in this out in words. Thank you all for being a part of that for me. :)_


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